The Adventure of the Silver Coin
by The Island Hopper
Summary: Holmes and Watson investigate a case concerning the murder of a man possessing a valuable Spanish coin collection by his supposed friend, but the web is more tangled than first realized and may hinge on an unspoken part of Holmes' past. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes **

I wrote this story on a whim a couple of years ago, meaning for it to possibly be the first story in a new series if its format and premise intrigued me enough. Also, I wanted to play around a little with writing mystery, since I'd never done it, and I figured a pastiche of a Holmes story would be good practice. I enjoyed writing it, but decided that mystery wasn't really a genre I was interested in writing a lot of, and scrapped the proposed series. For what it is as a short story, I think it works as a stand-alone piece, although by the end of the story, you'll see what I mean about how it was designed to be the first of several stories in a series.

_This will be published in several chapters a few days apart while I clean up each chapter before releasing it._ I doubt that I'll be writing any more Holmes stories, but hopefully this story is still enjoyable as it is: simply a very small contribution to the vast plethora of SH stories out there.

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**THE ADVENTURE OF THE SILVER COIN**

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

It has been my great pleasure these last twenty years to record remarkable feats of logic and deduction by my good friend Sherlock Holmes. These adventures have not only provided me with a way to supplement my meager military pension, but on a purely intellectual level has also provided endless hours of mental stimulus which, I dare say, I would not have encountered in my life otherwise. This last point may be one to which most people would underrate in terms of importance, however in my reflective hours I do sometimes ponder what my existence would have consisted of without the excitement my friend seems to bring in his wake. At the very least, it would have been a dull and unimaginative life, though old age has brought a note of sentimentality to my being. Time has not erased our adventures from my mind, but out of prudence, and perhaps a concern for the safety of certain parties, I have not written all that even my most diligent reader would recognize as a part of the life Holmes and I lead. Now, many years later, I feel I can, with a clear conscience, tell the reader one case which will forever be etched in my mind as an important event in my life, and I feel I can say without exaggerating, an important event in Holmes' life.

It was late October of 1895 and with the sudden chill of oncoming winter, crime in the city had decreased, leaving Holmes languishing without a case for over two weeks. As always, this absence of mental stimulation left Holmes apathetic and morose, made all the worse by the weather which forbid sane men from entering out-of-doors without a very specific purpose. Though cold and methodical with regards to scientific reasoning, my friend did have a Bohemian flair which left him a helpless music fanatic, and when I discovered an advertisement for a concert of several Wagner's librettos being performed at St. James's Hall, I managed to persuade Holmes to leave the warmth and comfort of our rooms on Baker Street for a rare evening of entertainment. Holmes was not at all disposed to appearing in public, much less respectable society, but Wagner's strange, transcendental sounds always seemed to lure him from whatever state they found him in and lifted his spirits, however temporarily.

After turning down my offer to treat him to supper, we found ourselves back at our rooms earlier than I had anticipated. We dined on sandwiches which Mrs. Hudson had managed to throw together, as she too had assumed we'd stop to dine on our way home. I was to be found not far from the warm fire all evening, since the damp chill pervading our rooms was aggravating my old war wounds, and Holmes planted himself firmly in the armchair he had all but occupied continuously these last dull weeks, reading the evening edition he'd picked up on the way home.

At around seven-thirty, Mrs. Hudson knocked on our study door.

"Inspector Hopkins to see you gentlemen," she announced.

Holmes practically leapt from the chair as Hopkins appeared and was offered a seat, which he took after turning down Mrs. Hudson's offer of tea. "I shan't take too much of your time tonight, Mr. Holmes, as we are just wrapping up a case and I have a mind to go home and get some rest."

"Of course, Inspector. Tonight is not a night to be out in the cold if one can help it," Holmes replied.

"Indeed. I have a letter here that my department received tonight, and I wondered if you might be able to tell me whether it is authentic or not. The man who wrote to us claims to be a part of the Willard Gang which, if you remember, has of late been involved in arson."

"And you dispute its authenticity?"

"I've grown weary of chasing down leads that get us nowhere," Hopkins admitted as he pulled a folded, vanilla white letter from his coat pocket and handed it to Holmes. "Seems the public has taken a great interest in the Willard Gang and finds it amusing when the police follow every phony lead we get."

Holmes opened the letter almost greedily and scrutinized the letter for only a moment before handing it back to Hopkins almost as quickly as he'd taken it. "It's a fake," Holmes said with a weary sigh, slinking back down into his easy chair.

"How did you know so quickly, sir?"

"The author of that letter is left-handed, while none of the Willard Gang is. Knowledge of kinetic dexterity is an underrated tool in the detection of crimes, one which I've been thinking quite seriously of publishing a monogram on for the benefit of those in my profession. I'm astonished that you, who have seen the _real _letters from the Willard Gang, could not immediately detect its falseness," Holmes answered in an uncharacteristically snappish voice. The cold, and the lack of cases, had made his temper a short one for the time being.

"How can we be sure one of the gang isn't left-handed?"

"Because only one of them is literate, Hopkins, and he is right-handed."

Hopkins dutifully folded the letter and put it back in his coat pocket. "I apologize for troubling you then, Mr. Holmes." He rose to leave.

"What was your other case, Inspector?"

"The one I've just come from? All wrapped up. No need to worry about that."

"I take it that it was the Winchester murder?"

"That's right."

"Sit, Inspector, and enlighten us. Humor me, for I have had a trying two weeks and my brain positively aches for a mystery."

"You can hear every bit of it, sir, but it won't make much difference. We arrested the guilty man this afternoon."

"If you wouldn't mind putting off your warm bed for another half hour, perhaps you will regale us with the details?" Holmes looked up at him with a small smile. From lodging with Holmes for so many years, I knew instinctively he must have found the reports in the paper he'd just read to be inadequate, and that the evening might yet be salvaged.

Hopkins sat back down and shrugged slightly. "For all the help you've given me over the years, Mr. Holmes, I'd be glad to tell you all I know, but I fear it's a waste of your time."

"Nonetheless, proceed."

"Very well. Bob Webster is a dealer in antique coins with a shop on Fleet Street and lives on the commission he gets from selling rare and valuable coins. Over the years, he's built a small reputation on his deep knowledge of currency and until recently has done moderately well for himself and his small family, whom he resides with above his shop. However, Webster has recently fallen on hard times, and from what I've been able to gather is dangerously near bankruptcy.

"Webster has - or had, I should say - a friend named Elliott Winchester, who was a banking manager at Croftstow Brothers Limited for twelve years. Winchester has been described as a very honorable man, cool-headed and steady of nerves. He never married, and lived a relatively uneventful, comfortable and quiet life. Over the past eight years, Webster and Winchester got to know each other rather well, as business often brought Webster to Croftstow when an exchange was needed. Winchester's servants tell me it wasn't unusual for Webster to spend long evenings with Winchester, and that their employer had one item that interested Webster deeply. Upon the death of his father, Winchester inherited a collection of rare Spanish coins minted in 1715, and these he kept displayed in his study. It was a large collection worth many thousands of pounds. Time and again Webster had told Winchester of the great value of his coins, and on at least two occasions made rather generous offers for them. However, Winchester refused to part with them, and I fear this was his undoing.

"As I've stated earlier, Webster has hit a bad spot, financially speaking, and has not yet told his wife of the trouble they are facing. Last night, by his own admission and which has been confirmed by the servants, Webster arrived unannounced at Winchester's house begging an interview. Webster told his friend he had found a buyer for the Spanish coins who would pay handsomely, and that the transaction would be beneficial to both of them; Webster would make enough on commission to absolve his debts and Winchester would make a handsome profit. Webster made an impassioned plea to his friend, but Winchester refused to budge. Winchester considered the collection a family heirloom which no price could part him with. Webster left the house disheartened around eleven last evening. Around one o'clock in the morning, Eliza Scott, the servant, was awakened from her slumber by the sound of voices coming from downstairs. She heard Webster's voice in the front room with Winchester, but since the two men were good friends, she thought nothing of it and went back to sleep. A half hour later, at one-thirty, she was again awoken, this time from the sound of Winchester's screams. By the time she ran to the study, Winchester was dead, beaten to death with a candlestick from the mantle and the collection of Spanish coins had disappeared.

"There was no sign of forced entry, which corroborates Eliza's statement that Winchester himself let Webster in. The police first questioned Webster, who swears that after he left the house at ten-thirty, he'd gone to a pub with a friend to drown his sorrows. We have not yet been able to locate Webster's friend, so unfortunately we've not been able to confirm that Webster was, in fact, at the pub. After a thorough search of Webster's belongings, one coin from Winchester's collection was found in the overcoat pocket belonging to Webster."

"Have you been able to locate the rest of the collection?"

"No, sir, we have not. We're operating under the assumption that the collection has already been sold a private buyer."

"Strange that a transaction such as the one you're speaking of would be conducted in the middle of the night," I commented. "Has Webster given the name of the potential buyer he spoke to Winchester of?"

"Yes, sir, a Mr. David Zimmerman, whom the police spoke to this morning. He was indeed interested in purchasing the Winchester collection but said he had not heard from Webster in days."

"Any sign of the money?"

"None."

"And I suppose it's too much to hope for that there are any records or receipts for the transaction?"

"There are none."

"So, Inspector, you're actually operating under the assumption that Webster sold the coins to a second interested party, and one to whom such a late night, off-the-books type of transaction wouldn't bother?" Holmes said, folding his hands in his lap.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, that is correct."

"And what does Webster say?"

"He pleads his innocence, sir, as any criminal might."

"Of course! They're _all _innocent," Holmes responded with a smirk.

"There would be enough evidence so far to land him in court, but there is one more detail that is very much of interest to the police, and I believe makes this an open-and-shut case."

"And what is that?"

"Up until eight years ago when Webster married, he was a petty criminal mainly involved in burglaries. He spent a short time in prison for breaking and entering after the owner of the home he was burglaring slammed a window on his hand, effectively rendering him unable to escape before the police found him. However, when his wife agreed to marry him, she made him swear to give up crime for good, and it seems he did exactly this. But if there is anything to make a man turn back to a life of crime, it could conceivably be the prospect of losing one's livelihood and having to tell one's spouse that their finances were in shambles."

"Have you spoken to his wife?"

"Yes. She says Webster got home rather late from the pub, certainly after the time in which the crime was committed."

"So! A seasoned burglar in desperate need of money robs and murders a man he knows to have a rare coin collection of which the criminal is an expert. A servant who would know Webster's voice well swears it was he that she heard only moments before the murder was committed, and Webster's wife confirms he arrived home _after _the time of the murder."

"Exactly, Mr. Holmes, exactly," he muttered with grim satisfaction as he took a long sip of his tea.

"I do have one question: this man Webster, does he have a history of _violent _crimes?"

"No, sir, come to think of it. Not even assault."

"Strange. A man experienced in burglary would wait until everyone in the house was asleep before attempting theft. But it seems Webster knocked on the door, was admitted by Winchester, and broke into a heated argument with him, ending with Webster bludgeoning his friend to death. It would, of course, make more sense if Winchester had _caught _him in the act, taken him by surprise, and the murder the result of a botched robbery, but this seems not to be the case," Holmes muttered to himself as he stared into the fire.

"Out of curiosity, Inspector, what _do _you think happened to the coins, if indeed the money is nowhere to be found?" I asked.

"The man panicked at his actions and disposed of the coins in some way so as not to get caught," he explained simply. "The collection is probably at the bottom of the Thames as we speak."

"But then why the single coin in his overcoat pocket? Why would the man have something on him connecting him with the murder?" Holmes asked, his eyes hardening in concentration.

"Criminals do make mistakes, especially if they are out of practice. Perhaps he felt he could make a small profit with a single coin, at least enough to keep his creditors at bay for a short while longer," Hopkins answered. He studied Holmes for a moment before declaring, "You seem to think there is more to this than meets the eye."

"There are holes in your theory, Inspector, that are large enough for an unidentified murderer to escape through."

"I feel we've done quite well," he said indignantly. "And I feel certain we've got the right man in custody. However, if you'd like to investigate for yourself, I will make no move to stop you."

"Will you accompany us to the scene of the crime?"

"I'm afraid we've cleared it, sir."

"Nevertheless, we shall see what we can pluck from the remains," Holmes said with a small smile as he stood to leave.

A moment later and much against my resolve to spend the evening by the hearth, we were following Hopkins in a cab towards Winchester's house, and I couldn't help but notice a peculiar smile which tugged at my friend's face.

"Really, Holmes, surely this is a waste of time. Are you so very bored that you'll venture out on a cold night like this when it appears that the police have this case covered at every angle?" I asked him.

"No, Watson, on a night such as this I too prefer our warm lodgings, but I fear there are too many unexplained details in the inquiry's hasty conclusion. We may yet be able to help this man Webster, if he is indeed innocent of this dreadful crime. We shall see for ourselves, and draw our own conclusions."

I thought his choice of words interesting, for in all our years solving cases, I had yet to solve a case correctly before he did. However, his eyelids had drooped and Holmes was obviously in deep meditative thought, and thus I did not disturb him until we had arrived at the home of the late Elliott Winchester of Crofstow Bros. Ltd.

Hopkins showed us into the study where the coins had been kept and where Winchester had met his grisly end. A lone officer was on duty, but otherwise it was much as Hopkins had said; except for the blood splatter still evident on the rug in front of the fireplace, there were no other indicators that anything unusual had taken place.

"Have fingerprints been taken, Inspector?"

"None were found on the candlestick which was used in the murder, sir. But then Webster must have been wearing gloves in this freezing weather we've been having the past few days."

"I regret to have forgotten my own. This coin that was found in Webster's pocket, where is it now?"

Hopkins pulled a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Holmes. Holmes dug the coin from the handkerchief and held the strangely-shaped silver piece in front of his eyes for a long moment.

"Do you mind if I take this, Hopkins?"

Hopkins shifted his weight. "Well, Mr. Holmes, we need it for the trial – "

"I can promise to have it back to you no later than tomorrow morning. I only want to ease my mind of one point."

"All right, Mr. Holmes, if you feel it's important."

"It may, perhaps, be of the utmost importance. Where is Eliza, the servant?"

"I'll get her."

Hopkins exited the room, leaving Holmes to stuff the handkerchief and coin into his pocket then scurry with quick step throughout the room, leaving nothing untouched with his gaze. I stood quietly in the corner near the officer until a small woman, perhaps forty years of age, with brunette hair and an ugly bruise above her left eye meekly entered the room with Hopkins behind her.

"This is Mr. Holmes, Eliza," Hopkins said softly, gesturing towards Holmes, who had turned his attention towards the girl. "He'd like to ask you a few questions about last night."

"I've told everything I know," she answered in a sharp tone I put down to a stressful, tragic day. She leveled her gaze at Holmes. "I'll tell you what I told the police. It was Mr. Webster, sir, if ever I lived and breathed. He needed the money and he knew exactly where Mr. Winchester kept his coins. It makes my stomach turn to know I ever let him into this house." Her face contorted into a small sob.

Holmes directed Eliza to sit and immediately began to pace. "Tell me everything that happened last night and leave nothing out, not even the smallest detail."

"I already told the police all I know, sir," she replied pointedly.

"There is five pounds in it for you if you tell me," Holmes said in a slightly more somber tone, looking directly into her eyes. I thought I saw the quick glean of greed flash in her eyes momentarily, but she lowered her gaze almost immediately.

Hopkins looked startled. "Mr. Holmes! I cannot allow you bribe the witness – "

"It's nothing, inspector, nothing," Holmes waved him away. His gaze turned back to Eliza. "Now, Ms. Scott, tell me."

Eliza hesitated for only a moment before beginning, "It was around nine o'clock, sir, when I let Mr. Webster in. He and Mr. Winchester sat in the study and at times I could hear raised voices through the closed doors. Mr. Webster left at around eleven in a rotten mood. Mr. Winchester dismissed me for the night shortly thereafter, and I went to sleep at around midnight. About an hour later, I awoke to the sound of raised voices coming from the study. It was Mr. Webster's voice, and I thought perhaps he had come back and that Mr. Winchester had let him in. I fell back asleep, but Mr. Winchester's screams woke me up about a half an hour later. I was frightened sir, and waited until all was quiet before I slipped into my robe and went to the study. Mr. Winchester was lying in front of the fireplace, his face dripping blood." She stopped here to let a small sob escape her before continuing, "He was dead, sir. That's when I went for the police."

"Could you decipher anything that was said during Mr. Webster's second visit?"

"No, sir, only that it was his voice and he was shouting."

"When you went into the study, was anything disarranged?"

"Only the candlestick, sir, which was on the floor next to Mr. Winchester."

Holmes stepped closer to the girl, scrutinizing her deeply. "Might I ask how you got that bruise on your forehead?"

Eliza touched the tender spot, looking confused. "A fall, sir."

"A fall?"

"Yes. Yesterday morning I tripped in the garden and hit my head on one of the flagstones. I'm afraid I'm a bit clumsy at times."

"Thank you, Ms. Scott," Holmes said as he absent-mindedly flung a five pound note from his pocket into Eliza's lap. Before I could follow him, he was already storming towards the front door, shouting as he went, "Thank you, Inspector Hopkins! I shall be in touch!"

I nearly had to run to catch him at the kerb. "Holmes, what on earth? Why are you hurrying?"

"Because this is a more twisted web than even I first realized, Watson. Are you too tired to continue?"

"Not at all."

"Good. Let us go."

"Go where?" I asked as we both climbed in to a waiting cab.

"I think something sinister is going on here, Watson. It is too early to be sure, but that bruise on the girl's forehead...it is curious."

"You think Eliza did it?" I asked in astonishment.

"A small woman such as herself overpowering a man in the prime of his life armed with nothing more than a candlestick? I find it extremely difficult to believe."

"May I ask, then, why you gave her five pounds for her story?"

"All in good time, my dear fellow." Holmes yelled an address up to the driver and we were away in an instant, whisking through the cold streets of London as the last slivers of sunlight ushered forth twilight that bathed the city in darkness.

"Are we headed to Webster's shop?"

"No. The trail would be long cold by now, Watson, if ever there was one that ran through that shop."

"Then where _are _we going?"

Holmes pulled the handkerchief wrapped in the coin out of his pocket, studying it.

"We are going to find out if this web can be untangled."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

We stopped in front of a bedeviled looking shop in the East End which sold dilapidated collectibles that had seen brighter days. No light shone in the window and the shop was very obviously closed, but this did not stop my friend from banging on the door violently with his walking stick until a stooped elderly man bearing a candle came to the door, opening it only a few inches.

"We are _closed _for the night," the man said tersely through the opening. "Our hours are clearly posted on the – " The man stopped mid-sentence as Holmes showed a fistful of bills where the man could see it. A moment later, the door opened wide enough to let us in. "I would hope whatever brings you gentlemen out in such weather is an emergency," said the man, considerably more amiable now. We entered the ragged shop, which was not lit and smelled of damp.

"Whenever a man's life is at stake, it can rightly be called thus," Holmes answered. "You are, I take it, Mortimer Chance?"

"Yes, that's right."

"The same Mortimer Chance who is an expert on antique currency?"

The man brought himself up a little straighter and nodded with a smile, "You're correct, sir. You've heard of me?"

"Naturally. I find that keeping one's ears open and one's mouth shut extremely valuable for all sorts of life's questions."

"Come in, gentlemen, and have a seat." This we did. Chance took his place behind the counter and opened the cupboard above him. "If you are interested in collectables, my dear sirs, you'll find all you desire here. I have here a rare chess set, two hundred years old, crafted by French experts – "

"We're not interested in merchandise," Holmes interjected gently, obviously not wishing to waste any valuable time on being overly polite to a long-winded shopkeeper. He pulled the coin from his pocket and laid it in the palm of Chance. "What can you tell me of it?"

From a nearby drawer, Chance dug out an eye piece and began studying the coin's surface intently. "Early eighteenth century...Spanish mint...you have what we call a 'piece of eight' here, sir."

"Can you tell me anything of its value?"

"It's a small denomination sir, and has been shortchanged many times...when pieces of eight were minted, due to their irregular shape people used to cuff bits off the coin to make change, which is where the word 'shortchange' originally came from and why the Spanish crown eventually began making coins that were round, so as to stop that practice...but it is not in excellent shape, and probably would not be worth more than a few pounds."

"You sell these, then?"

"I'm afraid I don't take them on commission anymore," Chance responded delicately. He must have thought we were trying to sell the coin to him. "The market has dropped off on them, you see. If it hadn't, my poor friend Bob Webster might still be a free man."

"You've heard of the murder, then?"

"Yes, read all about it."

"What if I told you that that coin you hold in your hand is part of the now infamous Winchester collection, and that this coin was found in Webster's pocket after the murder?"

Chance shook his head slowly. "It don't make much sense to me, sir."

"Why is that?"

"Bob told me many times of Mr. Winchester's collection, and this would hardly be the most valuable piece. If he were to keep one coin from the collection, why this one?"

Holmes snatched the coin back and put it in his pocket as he rose. He slid a few bills in Chance's direction. "Thank you, Mr. Chance. Your expertise has been most valuable."

Within seconds, we were back on the street, with me busy trying to hail a cab. "Odd that Webster would keep a coin that would not fetch much on the market," I observed.

"This is turning out to be much more of a case than even I first realized," Holmes responded with barely suppressed glee as he leaned against a lamppost.

"And not a moment too soon," I remarked. "You really are quite trying to live with when you are without a case, Holmes." I did not normally speak so bluntly to Holmes, for I am not a blunt man, but some part of me wanted Holmes to acknowledge his somewhat difficult personality where a lack of cases was concerned. I sometimes wondered whether Holmes was capable of making concessions to me if I deemed them necessary; I had never yet run into such a situation, but at times it occurred to me that I was more tolerant towards his eccentricities than most companions would be, and wondered if he would do the same for me, if the shoe were on the other foot.

Holmes did not give me the satisfaction of the answer I wanted. Instead, he stated without interest, "It is my nature and cannot be helped." His tone of voice was the same as if he had simply been asked what time it was.

Though this grated my nerves slightly, I only inquired, "Where are we going now?" as a cab pulled to the kerb and we climbed in.

"We have no where else we _can _go this evening, Watson. We're going home until dawn brings with it a new day and then, I think, it will be time to speak to this Bob Webster."


	3. Chapter 3

When I rose in the morning, I was not surprised to see Holmes sitting by the fire in the arm chair much as I had left him the previous evening. By the haze wafting through our study, I could tell he'd spent the evening in deep thought with only his pipe to keep him company. I cleared my throat to announce my arrival, whereupon Holmes immediately sprung up from the chair and grabbed both of our coats from the hall.

"Watson, I was beginning to think you were a sleeping Rapunzel and that you should never wake!" he exclaimed.

"It is hardly seven," I commented sleepily as I pulled on my coat. "We are going to see Webster, then?"

"Yes, and to give Hopkins back his damning piece of evidence, which far from convicting the man, may very well help to set him free. Have you everything?"

"Yes, but why so early - "

"Because before the day is out, we must catch this criminal, whoever he might be, or lose all hope of ever doing so."

Within the hour we were face to face with Bob Webster, albeit separated by a barred window. Webster was a slight man, made all the slighter by dark circles around his eyes which spoke of a blistering fear. After introducing ourselves, he shook us both warmly by the hand. His grip was weak. "It must be the grace of God to have a man such as you trying to help a wretch like me," he sputtered through the opening. "I could not have hoped for such a miracle!"

"I deal in facts, not miracles, Mr. Webster," Holmes said as he grasped the man's hand. He frowned slightly and held Webster's hand to the light. I could see now that it was mangled badly, which would account for the weak grip, and felt a twinge of sympathy for the man; it could not have been easy for him to go about his life with such a contorted hand.

"I take it this was the hand which was smashed by a window during one of your more unfortunate stints in crime, Mr. Webster?" Holmes asked brusquely, never one to mince words.

"Indeed it is, Mr. Holmes," Webster said, releasing his hand from Holmes and bringing it to his chest. "Back in my criminal days, an old man slammed a window on it as I was trying to escape his home, which I had just robbed. He held the window down so tightly I was trapped until the police arrested me. Fear and anger give a man extraordinary strength, even an old man like him, and I, a young man at the time, could not escape. The hand was broken but never set." He smiled slightly. "Strange as it sounds, it's a constant reminder why I should not follow my old ways. I count it now as a blessing, as I do your presence, Mr. Holmes."

The man's ebullience evidently made Holmes uncomfortable, for he smiled tightly and said, "Then we can waste no time. Can you tell me what happened the night of Winchester's murder? Leave nothing out."

"Of course, sir." Webster said, settling himself against the window. "I suppose the police have told you by now that I am in some financial trouble. Truth is, I can't pay the rent for my shop anymore. Yesterday it was the only thing plaguing my mind; now I think I'd be happy to be homeless, as long as I was a free man. Elliott Winchester was a dear friend of mine, and his collection of coins could have fetched a pretty penny, enough for him to retire on and enough commission for me to pay off my debts. When I went round to his house last night, I didn't really expect him to give in, which of course he didn't. He didn't have much left to him by his father, and those coins had been his father's prized possession. I can't blame him for not wanting to part with them, but I thought it worth a shot. After I left, I went down the pub and had a few pints with a friend of mine who's a bartender there. I must have lost track of time, because I didn't stumble home until close to three, and by six I was in cuffs. The police said they'd found a coin belonging to Elliott in my pocket, but I can't for the life of me figure how it got there, Mr. Holmes. I would have never taken any of Elliott's collection unless he gave me the all right. I may have been a crook once, Mr. Holmes, but Beth, my wife, shook that out of me when we married. I was proud of the little honest business I'd managed to build up with my own two hands, and proud of my little family. I may have been drunk last night, but I did not kill my friend. That I am sure of. Elliott never had children, and I did not know my father well. Over the years, he'd become like a father to me and I could never hurt him. I've never been a violent man, Mr. Holmes. If I had been, I would have knocked the teeth out of that old man what did this to my hand once I got out of prison," he said, holding his hand up. "But I can't do anything about my past now, and the past is what they're holding against me."

"And the compatriot that was with you in the pub, what was his name?"

"Thurgood, Mr. Holmes."

"Thurgood?"

"Yes, sir. Thurgood Scott."

A look of horror, which I had never yet seen adorn the face of my friend, washed over Holmes' expression. He stood up and slapped the tabletop vehemently. "Thurgood Scott, did you say?"

"Yes sir."

"Are you absolutely sure that was the name he gave you?"

Webster looked up at Holmes incredulously. "I've known the man for nearly a year, Mr. Holmes. And his name is Thurgood Scott."

"How did you meet him?" Holmes immediately sat back down.

"I met him at the pub, the same one I was in last night. Only he's the bartender there, and sometimes gives me drinks for free if he's in a cheery mood."

"Any idea where I can find him now?"

"I suppose he'd be working tonight. Why?"

Holmes once again stood up and looked Webster in the eye quite seriously. "I know your friend, Webster. Or rather, did know him at one time. He is not what you believe him to be, and I fear he has betrayed your trust in the worst possible way." Holmes let this statement hang in the air for a moment before grabbing his coat and leaving in such haste that I was hard pressed to keep up.

"It's all coming together now, Watson! It's all beginning to make sense! And I shall finally have my hands on this man!"

"You...you _know _Thurgood Scott?" I panted as I jogged to keep pace.

Holmes stopped suddenly and gave me quite a somber look. "I am afraid, Watson, that there is a good deal which you don't know about me. But none of that matters at the moment, and we shall have our case wrapped up this night if we hurry, and Mr. Webster can be home with his family by mid-day tomorrow."

"You know who did it, then?"

"I know who did it. I know _why _he did it. I know _how _he did it. And I can prove it. Come, we must press on."

"I assume, then, we are off to find this Mr. Scott?"

"He will not be where Webster thinks he is. No, he is too wily for that. But I know where he shall be late tonight, and who he shall be with."

"Who is that, then?" I asked as we both collapsed into a cab once more.

Holmes looked at me as though I were the thickest being he'd yet encountered. "Isn't it obvious, Watson? Eliza Scott is not _Ms. _Eliza Scott - she is _Mrs. _Eliza Scott, and _Thurgood Scott is her husband!" _


	4. Chapter 4

After a frantic telegram to Hopkins at Scotland Yard, we met him on a street corner three streets east of Winchester's home. Holmes had anxiously awaited sunset, for he refused to take the next step in solving the case before dark. It was not quite nine o'clock in the morning by the time we left Webster, meaning I'd spent the entire day with the bundle of nerves that Holmes became whenever he was forced to pass the time. I was quite spent by the time night fell, as I'd had a shadow at my side the whole day, Holmes following me wherever I went. But finally ten o'clock came about, and we could see Hopkins emerge from the fog pervading the streets.

"I hope there's good reason for this, Mr. Holmes," Hopkins said, a bit sleepily. "I was hoping to go home to get some rest."

"No rest this night, I'm afraid, Hopkins. However, I can almost promise to deliver the murderer of Elliott Winchester into your hands within a few short hours."

Hopkins looked dumbfounded. "We went over this case yesterday. We have Webster in custody."

"That you do, but alas, Webster is not your man. From Eliza's statement, there is a garden in the back of Winchester's house?"

"There are back gardens belonging to each of the houses on that street, Mr. Holmes."

"Good. Then we have only two bits of luck to hope for: one, that there is sufficient foliage to lose ourselves in, and two, that we are not already too late."

We hurried on to the street where Winchester's house lay just as my watch reached the eleventh hour of the evening. Tall bushes lined Winchester's garden, and as soon as we made our way over the stone wall protecting it from the next row of houses, we buried ourselves inside the bushes and waited with baited breath. Not knowing what Holmes planned, all I could do was silently wait - but for what, exactly, I couldn't be sure.

I began to nod off around eleven-thirty, and it was only from the savage pokes from a branch of the bush wielded by Holmes that I managed to stay awake at all. To the left of me, I could tell by the small sighs emitted by Hopkins that he failed to see why this was a worthwhile enterprise when a soft bed awaited him at home. However, just as my watch reached midnight, we heard a rustle in the thicket across from us and a large, gangly man dropped from the garden wall and into Winchester's garden. Holmes made a gesture for Hopkins and I to remain absolutely silent.

The back door to the Winchester home slowly opened, and a woman's voice called softly, "Is that you?"

"'Tis," came the soft reply as the figure approached her.

"Do you have the coins?"

"Yes. We can sell them as soon as we're out of the country."

"I have my things. Let's - "

_"Thurgood Scott!" _Holmes suddenly burst from beside me and immediately strode out into the garden. Upon seeing my friend, Scott inexplicably turned pale and began to race towards the wall to climb out of the garden. Holmes had always been swifter than most men, and managed to tackle Scott shortly before he jumped to the wall. Hopkins and I followed while Eliza screamed from the open doorway.

"You'll stay too, miss!" Hopkins commanded her.

I helped Holmes hold the man down until he stopped flailing, whereupon we lifted him to a standing position and led him into the house, where Hopkins immediately tied his wrists and pushed him into a chair.

Thurgood Scott was tall and pale, with a long hair and thick brows. Even in a sitting position, he hunched over, as though sitting straight was too much of a bother. He smelled like a brewery, and when he spoke I found that his teeth were a sickly golden color.

"I'd like to know what this is all about," he spat viciously. "False imprisonment is a crime."

"We'll find very shortly that we are entirely justified in our actions," Holmes replied. He gave the man a dour smile. "Thurgood Scott, I never hoped, and indeed never wished, to lay eyes on you again."

"It has been many years, Holmes. But here I am. I can make no amends, but here I am, man, if you must kill me."

"I shall let the crown have that honor. But first, I believe Inspector Hopkins would like to know what exactly happened here last night, and why an innocent man is sitting in a prison cell."

Scott laughed softly. "And how do you figure that then, Holmes? Or was I simply the most convenient target? One whom you have a grudge against?"

"I think you know me better than that to make such an accusation. And I suppose you also know that when I heard the name 'Thurgood Scott' from Webster's lips, I knew it could be no other. No, Scott, it was _you _who murdered Elliott Winchester, it was _you _who planted the coin in Webster's pocket so that he would be charged with the crime, and it was _you _who planned to leave London this night with your bride."

"Prove it, Holmes," Scott said with a challenging look in his eye.

"I should like nothing better." Holmes lay his walking stick on the counter to his left and began to pace.

"I had my suspicions from the start, of course. The news reports were woefully inadequate and poor reporting lends itself to private musings. For one such as Webster, the leap from a simple cat burglar to brazen murderer is a wide chasm to cross so quickly. Despite what others may say, there remains a large difference between those who steal and those who kill. Past behavior is often an excellent indicator of what the future may bring with it, and when Inspector Hopkins informed me that Webster had no history of violent crime, and indeed that the crime was committed in a manner totally alien to the style of Webster's past crimes, my suspicions were roused further. As we progressed in our case, it became indelibly clear that Webster could not be the murderer. For one, Webster is right-handed, and his right hand was badly injured by the victim who eventually sent him to jail for a short stint. I observed Webster's hand when we talked to him earlier. Winchester's death was caused by bludgeoning with a candlestick and a man will always instinctively use his dominant hand for such a thing, however Webster would have been physically unable to perpetuate such an injury with his deformed dominant hand; he simply would not have had the grip to do so. You'll remember, Hopkins, that I propounded the importance of having a passing knowledge of kinetic dexterity days ago, and now you see why. But the _coup de grace _of the police's belief in Webster guilt came from none other than what they considered their strongest evidence to be; that is, the coin which was found in Bob Webster's coat pocket. After taking the coin to an expert in archaic currency, Watson and I learned that the coin was not a valuable one, and that a specialist such as Webster would not have kept it out of all of the other valuable coins in Winchester's collection. Thus, Webster had not put the coin in his pocket of his own volition.

"So, it became indelibly clear that there was a third party skulking in the shadows of this mystery, one which the police had not known to look for. There were no signs of forced entry into Winchester's house, meaning that the real murderer would have had unlimited access to the interior of the house. No one, save Eliza the servant, could testify that they heard Webster's voice moments before Winchester's death, and no one else would have had a key to the house. When Eliza agreed to tell me her story only for the sum of five pounds, it showed that she is a woman who is moved to sometimes unethical deeds by money."

"Do you mean you would not have believed she had anything to do with this murder if she had not agreed to your bribe, Holmes?" I asked, astonished.

"Indeed, Watson. When she agreed so readily, my suspicions were confirmed, and the bruise above her brow gave me further indication that was an unidentified assailant in our midst. It was known that Winchester was a cool-headed man, one who would never strike a servant, and so Eliza must have someone close to her, perhaps a husband, a beastly, violent man, for only a man with no mores and no sense of guilt would assault a woman. But could he also be moved to murder if the financial gain was great enough? A master of a house and his servant are the only people to have unlimited access to a place of residence, except, of course, for the spouse of a servant, however secreted that spouse may be. Eliza testified that she knew Webster's voice well, and she would have overheard the many times Webster told Winchester of the great value of his collection of Spanish coins. Is it such a leap, then, for a wife to tell a husband of such goings-on in her place of employment? And is it such a leap to believe that Thurgood Scott would have seized the opportunity when it arose? Yes, Thurgood Scott, the bartender at the pub Webster frequented, listened to Webster's tale of woe that night. He saw his chance, and he took it."

Scott laughed softly from his bound position on the chair. "Well done, Holmes. Time has not affected your abilities, I see."

"Then it's true?" Hopkins barked.

"Yes, Inspector," Scott answered darkly, not taking his scathing gaze from Holmes. "Bob was a bit of a lightweight when it comes to spirits, if you want the truth. A few lagers opened his mouth. He told me the old man wouldn't budge, and that he'd be on the streets within a week. When I was sure Bob was drunk enough to stay put for a half hour or so, I came straight here, and Eliza let me in."

"You swore we'd never tell!" Eliza cried from the corner. "So you'll send me to the Old Bailey as well, after I took the risk on myself?"

"Why not?" Scott said disaffectedly. "You knew what I was when you married me. And you stood by as that old man caught me in the act, and looked on as I bashed his skull in. You didn't try to stop me. You wanted the money as badly as I did."

"I never wanted you to murder Mr. Winchester!" Eliza burst, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks. She leaned against the wall. "God knows it wasn't what I wanted!" she wailed. "You told me no one would get hurt, that we could get the collection and be out of London the same night!"

"How was I supposed to know the silly arse would catch me in the act?" Scott boomed. "I did what I had to do, Eliza. You've never understood that!"

"You would have let an innocent man hang for this crime!" Eliza screamed. "After you killed Mr. Winchester, the first thing you did was take a coin from the collection and run back to the pub to put it in Bob Webster's coat pocket so that the police would think he did it!"

"What else was I supposed to do?"

"We could have left, right then and there! There wouldn't have been enough evidence to convict Webster without that coin! It's bad enough to kill a man, Thurgood, but worse to let someone else take the fall for it!"

"I've heard enough," Hopkins said as he jerked Scott to a standing position. A quick search of Scott's pockets yielded a large sack cloth heavy with coinage and Hopkins began to lead Scott away after applying handcuffs to Eliza as well. Holmes had turned to the window and lit a cigarette.

"One more thing, Scott," Holmes said slowly with his back turned to the criminal. Scott threw him a disdainful look. Holmes exhaled deeply and kept his shoulders straight. "What of Eleanor?"

Scott's brow darkened and he gave a short, abysmal laugh. "What of her, Holmes? What of her? Food for worms, Holmes."

Holmes whirled around, studying him sharply. "What do you mean?" he demanded shortly and without emotion.

"Dead these nine months. Consumption took her in Manchester." Scott smiled coldly; something in his expression made my skin crawl. "You can put me behind bars, Holmes. That's one of your ghosts banished. But Eleanor? Well, real ghosts don't make much for redemption, now do they? And the little nipper, sent to Amberson street, if you know what I mean."


	5. Chapter 5

I had hopes that Holmes would decipher Scott's words for me there in the kitchen of that dreadful house, or even back in our rooms on Baker Street, but he was silent on the subject, as he was indeed on most subjects for the next several days. The only bright spot of that week came from the reading of Winchester's will, where Bob Webster was named the inheritor of the Spanish coin collection he'd so longed for. Now that Webster was a free man, he was able to use the sale of the coins to David Zimmerman, the man who had expressed interest, to pay off all of his debts and even move his family to better quarters.

However, Holmes seemed to take no solace in this and came and went at odd hours. This wasn't in and of itself unusual, but normally he would finally crack under the weight of his own excitement and tell me of whatever case had kept him away. However, this time he didn't let a word or an expression betray what he had been doing those long days in London. Many times I longed to ask him what Scott's departing words had meant, as they had obviously been of significance to my old friend, but I did not try to force the truth out of him for I had learned that Holmes' inner life was as locked and guarded as any prison where the criminals he apprehended were sent. Those days were ones of awkwardness and discomfort; I felt the full weight of each of my footsteps out of fear of disturbing Holmes, and for the first time since we began lodging together, I almost looked forward to the times when he was not at home for these were the only times I could relax. This, I must admit, made me feel quite ashamed, for if Holmes felt that I should know, then he would tell me. I could hope for nothing more, for Holmes was not the sort of man to do something that was not of his own initiative.

Holmes was silent for six days and six nights. For my own part, I had very nearly come to the end of my tether. Though I do not consider myself a talkative individual, and indeed do not mind many hours passing without a word said, Holmes' persistent silence was beginning to wear on my nerves. For the better part of a week, he'd barely said more than, "Good morning," "Good night," and "No sugar in my tea, thank you." I almost began to think he was beginning to resent my even being there, and I tried to make myself scarce by spending an inordinate amount of time at my club, however, a man must sleep sometimes.

I had come back late one evening after playing billiards at my club for the better part of the evening. Eager to warm the damp out of my bones, I had settled down in front of the fire to warm myself. Holmes was in his usual repose on the armchair, smoking somewhat sulkily with his nose buried in the evening edition. "I suppose, Watson, you have been curious," Holmes said suddenly. I nearly jumped in my chair; it was the longest sentence I'd heard him utter in six days.

I didn't need to ask to what he was referring. "I admit it has been occupying my mind."

Holmes unceremoniously threw the paper on the floor. "I owe you an apology, dear fellow."

"Perhaps," I answered in what I hoped was not an unkind voice, but it was impossible not to let my annoyance show. "I've felt like an unwanted relative in my own home for most of the week now."

Holmes stood up, placing a long-fingered hand on the mantle, and stared into the fire. "It was not my intention, I assure you. My mind has been…preoccupied."

I crossed my hands on my lap and looked up at him seriously. "Holmes," I stated quietly. "Whatever has been torturing you these last days, I want you to know I'd think no different of you, whatever it is. You are my friend and will remain as such." I sighed quietly. "Was Eleanor a wife? Part of a loveless marriage you had before you met me?"

Holmes threw me a contemptible look. "Now really, Watson, you do know me better than that, don't you?"

"I thought I gathered there was a child mentioned by Scott."

"It isn't _my _child, Watson." He turned back to the mantle. "It is my sister's."

I stared at him incredulously. "A _sister? _You never told me you had a sister."

"Well why on earth would it matter?" Holmes answered somewhat defensively as he began to pace the length of the room. "Even by the time I met you, I hadn't seen her for many years. A dispute, you see, that could have only sprung from the pretentiousness of youth." Holmes sank down into his chair and stared deeply into the fire. "It isn't an interesting story, Watson, nor an entirely uncommon one."

"For someone I've lodged with for such a long time, I certainly don't know much about your family."

"What is there to tell? A mother, a father, three children, vastly different in age. I was already in school by the time Eleanor was born, practically in long pants I was. We were never close. When she came of marrying age, she insisted on marrying a man I knew full well to be a desperate rogue, one who would never give her a safe or easy hour, and I told her such. Even at that young age, George McCalliver was destined for a life of unseemly deeds, and his best friend Thurgood Scott certainly didn't try to stop him. Love blinds people, as it did my sister, and she could not see the man she was marrying for what he truly was. Youth, Watson - one is always in the right, if they are young. Eleanor made her decision, and I made mine. We parted company and I never saw her again."

"But surely there is more to it than that. Surely - "

"What? Surely, it was my responsibility as her brother to ensure her safety? Don't let's play that game Watson, I have been over it and over it in my mind these past heavy days. Perhaps it would have been different - perhaps not. The one grave error in the make-up of our brains is not only our ability to remember, but rather the ability to see our errors only in hindsight. The great tragedy, of course, is never knowing if anything _could_ have turned out differently if one had only acted in another way. The word 'could', Watson, is the most tragic word in the English language." This was the most transcendental thing I'd ever heard Holmes utter, and I found that I had to try hard to mask my surprise.

"But how did you not know she was dead? Wouldn't Mycroft - "

Holmes let out a bark of short laughter. "Mycroft! If I was almost in long pants by the time Eleanor was born, how old do you think Mycroft was? No, Watson, he did not know her well. I cannot blame him for this."

I folded my hands. "So this is what has been bothering you so these last days."

"Partly. But what is past is past, and there is very little I can do about Eleanor now, except for one thing."

"And what is that?"

"The child, Watson. The child is in an orphanage on Amberson Street, as Scott said. After some inquiries, I found that Eleanor died of tuberculosis in Manchester at the end of February and George McCalliver, her husband, died six years ago after being murdered outside a pub by an unknown assailant." Holmes clasped his hands behind his back. "I wonder, Watson, what sort of man will this boy grow up to be? Orphaned at the age of eight, sent to a London orphanage due to overcrowding in Manchester, marooned until he is legally old enough to be thrown into the streets with no help, no support, no money and no education. What he has seen of this world thus far in his short life has been ugly and base - where else could he conceivably turn but to crime, if that is the only life he has ever known? Will I someday help in the arrest of my own flesh and blood?" He turned back to the fire, seemingly heavy at heart. "I'm not much for charity, as you know. But I can at least send him to school and be a point of contact for his future. We don't need any more criminals on the street than we have already."

I nodded. "I think it good of you, Holmes. And I think it an excellent idea. Do you mean to tell me this is what you've agonized over for six days?" I laughed softly. "Goodness, Holmes, you must think me some sort of Scrooge if you could not reveal to me this plan of yours. Why on earth would it affect me, one way or another? And even if it did, why should I object to the boy getting an education?"

Holmes shot me a strange look, one I could not entirely decipher. "There is one thing."

"What is that?" I asked.

Holmes cupped his hands in front of him. "I have spent a good deal of time at the orphanage this past week. The administrators at Amberson tell me the boy has had no education. I had figured as much, knowing his background. The child cannot so much as spell his name, yet I cannot send him to a proper school until his rudimentary studies are completed, which will certainly have to be done by a hired tutor, and he has caught up to his peers."

"But surely he must have lessons at the orphanage."

"Have you been to an orphanage for poor children lately, Watson?" Holmes said, arching an eyebrow. I remained silent; I knew very little of the conditions of such places. If Holmes had spent many hours at those places this last week, he was in a better position than I to make such judgments. "He must have his rudimentary studies before sending him to the grade fit for his age, yet you cannot build a cathedral without a foundation. He must have basic lessons before proceeding."

"What are you suggesting?"

Holmes turned to me, a slightly apprehensive look in his eye. "Watson, I shall be blunt with you. I wish to bring him to Baker Street for a term of private tutoring, and if he shows sufficient strength of mind he should be ready for boarding school by autumn."

I stood up and folded the newspaper Holmes had dropped. It seemed I was always helping him clear up messes, in one form or another. "I think you'd agree that our flat is hardly the place for a child. We're gone strange hours, you eat and sleep irregularly, perform sometimes dangerous experiments, clients coming and going at all hours, not to mention your despicable cocaine ha - "

"Watson, you bring up excellent points," he interrupted, knowing full well that I understood he had already made up his mind. "But assuage yourself with the knowledge that it is only for a short time."

I looked at him tersely. "It is not like you, Holmes, to decide on something without aligning all the details."

"And how do you know that I have not?"

"For instance, who shall tutor him?"

"I have already found a most excellent tutor recently graduated from my alma mater who has agreed to take the job for the extra pocket money he needs."

"Where shall he sleep?"

"There is a small but sufficiently sized pocket room Mrs. Hudson normally uses for summer linen storage that can be cleaned out and converted to a makeshift bedroom rather easily."

"And does Mrs. Hudson know this?"

"It was her idea."

I felt struck. "You have talked with Mrs. Hudson of this arrangement, and yet you have not spoken to me about it before you've made up your mind?" I picked up the paper, preparing to retire to my room. "I also live here, Holmes. Did you take into consideration how I might feel about having a strange child living here with us?"

"Of course I did!" he called to me as I was leaving the room. "Why on earth do you think I've been brooding for six days?"

I stopped, turned back, and looked at him. Holmes appeared almost anxious.

"Watson," he said in a quiet tone. "Do you remember the night we stood outside of Mortimer Chance's shop and you told me that I was difficult to live with? You did not think I was listening, dear Watson, but I was. I have no wish to become sentimental about such things, but please do know that I realize what sacrifices and irritations you have borne in my wake." He was silent a moment before saying quite softly, "And do not think that I don't realize that you are often a better friend to me than I am to you."

I stood dumbstruck for a moment. Never before or since has Holmes so plainly made his affection for me known. "Holmes…" I started. I put the back of my hand to my mouth, and stuttered weakly as I had many times before and since, "You know it is my greatest pleasure to help you in any way I can."

Holmes took a breath before continuing in a stronger voice, "I have made arrangements to leave Baker Street for other lodgings in the event this situation made you feel uncomfortable, which it quite understandably does. I cannot ask you to try and understand. I cannot ask you to give up the life to which you are accustomed on my account, and indeed I won't. Watson, I can do nothing for Eleanor. But I can make her only child's life easier and that, I believe, is worth doing."

I slowly entered the room once more and sat back down, listening to the fire. Though he dare not admit it, perhaps my friend was looking for redemption in the life of this kin he had hirethro been unaware even existed. It was possible for a man to seek second chances in the strangest of ways and times; I knew enough of the world to believe that. I placed my hand on my chin. "Well...surely the child should not languish in an orphanage if it can be helped," I conceded slowly.

"Indeed not."

"And...as it is temporary..."

"Yes?"

I found myself smiling quietly. "I suppose...I suppose it wouldn't hurt for him to stay here. But for the duration of the child's stay, I must insist - "

Before I could finish my sentence, Holmes had taken the small box where he kept his syringe and bottle of opiate, and threw it into the fire. He returned my slight smile. "There, doctor. The beast is at bay."

I breathed a small sigh of relief. "I'm damn glad to hear it, Holmes."

"So we are agreed?"

I smiled at his animation; indeed, it had been a long while since I had seen him so filled with anticipation.

"My dear fellow, of course we are."


	6. Chapter 6

The next day dawned clear and cold, a welcome respite from the hard rain we'd experienced for the better part of three weeks. Holmes had risen quite early considering he did not have a case, and helped Mrs. Hudson move the linens to an unused closet at the top of the stairs near my room. The room to be used by the boy was not very large, however it was big enough for the need at hand. It had, of course, no window, being in the middle of the house, but the walls were bright white, making the room seem larger than it actually was. After running armful loads up and down the steps, Holmes dismantled the shelves in the room, leaving only one shelf which to use as a bookshelf. I had not known he had even a passing knowledge of hardware and tools, and was impressed with his work. Mrs. Hudson busied herself cleaning the walls and floor of the room while Holmes and I went to nearby furniture shops until we found a few items which would suit the space. Though Holmes never showed much interest in the value of money, he spent freely in the purchase of a child's size bed, a small desk and a handsome oak chair which matched the ensemble perfectly. We stopped by a bookseller's, where Holmes bought a few volumes he felt no child's library should be without and put a generous amount on account at one of the better clothing shops which sold clothes for children. We arrived home just as the furniture was being delivered, and as we hoped, everything fit inside the room, albeit a bit snugly. After a light lunch served by a thoroughly exhausted Mrs. Hudson, we set out towards Amberson Street.

Holmes had not yet met the child personally, as he had not known what arrangements he'd take, and as we walked the length to orphanage in question, he was strangely quiet.

"Don't tell me you have apprehensions about this, Holmes?" I asked.

"On the contrary, nothing could dissuade me," He paused. "But this is rather a leap, is it not? Why is it when one is on the threshold of a new chapter in one's life, one has so very little to say about it?"

"Do you see it that way?"

"A nephew, Watson, and one I would have never met if it hadn't been for that foul-mouthed ogre, Thurgood Scott. What strange things chance encounters lead us to, and what to happen if they didn't?"

"You're quite philosophical this morning, my dear fellow. Do you mean to say you don't think you would have ever discovered your nephew had it not been for the case of the silver coin?"

"I find it difficult to believe."

"Perhaps, Holmes, you simply didn't want to know, as the truth would have been too painful to pursue on your own."

"Now there I think you are mistaken. I make my living by pursuing the truth."

"Other people's truth, Holmes. Rarely your own."

A strenuous walk later, we arrived in a questionable part of London as we turned onto Amberson Street. The orphanage, St. Mary's Orphan Asylum, loomed on the horizon; it was a ghastly structure in every sense of the word. Decrepit, run down, and surrounded by shoeless children running amuck in the yard attached to it, I felt my first stab of apprehension; would this child be some sort of a ruffian, one so used to a life of hardship that the bad habits of the criminal class were already buried deep in his psyche? Would he be the holy terror of our lives for the next several months? Indeed, by looking at the children in the yard, I could not altogether convince myself this had been a good idea. _It is a child, _I reminded myself sternly. _And not just any child; the blood of Sherlock Holmes runs through the veins of this boy. _Looking at the children, I almost found it hard to believe. I could sense without looking at Holmes that his face was taut, his mouth a grim line, and his brow wrinkled, perhaps his thoughts echoing my own. No doubt many thoughts were running through his agile mind as we announced ourselves and waited in the foyer to catch a glimpse of the face that would be so well known to us both from that moment on. Holmes tapped his walking stick impatiently on the flagstone floor in an absent-minded rhythm as we waited, another sure sign that deep down he was as anxious as I.

"This is intolerable! What could be taking so long?" Holmes muttered tersely under his breath.

"We've not been waiting more than two minutes," I reminded him gently.

"How many McCallivers could there be in this place?" he kept on, ignoring me completely. It was, I knew, a front for the nervousness we were both experiencing.

About twenty feet in front of us, a small face suddenly appeared around a pillar in the foyer, peeking at us hesitantly. I was struck immediately by the child's eyes, for they nearly mirrored my friend's. Holmes froze. I, however, sensed a kind of sweetness in the child's face, and immediately my own worries were washed away. I walked towards him a few steps, bent down at my knees, smiled, and beckoned him forward. His brow wrinkled in concentration and disappeared behind the pillar again. I laughed softly. "No need to fear us," I said gently, for though I could not see him, I knew the child was still there, listening. "You can come out. We'd like to see you."

It took a long moment, but eventually I saw a small, unclad foot attached to a diminutive body step away from the pillar, and the child emerged slowly. Holmes had said the boy was eight, but if one had to judge by his size, I would have sworn he was no more than five. He had a mop of unruly dark-brown hair crowning his head and deep, trusting brown eyes. The rags he wore clung to his small frame, and his hands and neck were filthy. He was the picture of a malnourished child, and I suddenly felt a piercing pity for the boy. I smiled broadly and held out my hand to him, urging him towards us. "Come along now," I said softly. "We're taking you to Baker Street."

A slight spark in the child's eye sent him forward a few more steps. "Baker Street?" he nearly whispered.

I nodded with a smile. "I am Dr. Watson, and this is your uncle, Sherlock Holmes."

Holmes tipped his hat, but still did not move. It occurred to me that a certain shyness must be a specific trait in the Holmes bloodline and I suddenly understood why he insisted I come along. The child looked upon his uncle with large eyes, taking him in slowly and studying him closely. When the child did not move for close to a minute, I thought the shock of suddenly realizing he still had family had been too much for the boy. But ever so slowly, the boy reached around to his back pocket and pulled out a sheaf of papers loosely bound. I nearly gasped when I recognized an old copy of _The Strand _magazine clutched in his small hands.

"Baker Street?" he repeated in a quiet voice.

* * *

><p>We cut quite a sight, the three of us: two respectably dressed men walking beside a bedraggled looking urchin. Phillip McCalliver, as the boy was called, was released from St. Mary's shortly after our informal introduction and entrusted to our care. The boy had no possessions of his own save the magazine tucked neatly in his back pocket; it seems it was the only thing he could call his own. The boy was exceedingly shy, and only after endless questions which received monosyllabic replies, I managed to gather that an older, literate boy at the orphanage named Jacob had read my story in <em>The Strand <em>to the small boy repeatedly. Phillip once had as many as seven editions of the magazine, all containing different stories of mine, which had been purchased by Eleanor whenever she could scrape together enough money, but they had little by little been stolen from under his mattress at the orphanage until only a singly copy remained. From the shape it was in, I was proud to think it must have been thumbed through and read aloud many times, and felt some small sense of pride that I had inadvertently introduced Phillip to his uncle long before they realized they were related. I can say this now, when old age has softened my heart somewhat, that all of the letters of praise I've received about my stories from well-known authors, heads of state, law enforcement officials and prominent members of society seem very humble when compared to what those scribblings meant to a small orphan in those bleak, lonely days of his early life.

Holmes admitted to me, many years later, that he and his nephew's introduction was perhaps made easier by the fact that Phillip was already well aware of many of his habits and inclinations. After Mrs. Hudson scrubbed the boy thoroughly, he was dressed in one of Holmes' old bed shirts (which fell below the boy's knees) and a tattered robe Holmes did not wear much anymore and which dragged behind the boy a good two feet. A tailor came by the same afternoon and measured young Phillip for a wardrobe which would arrive the next afternoon, and the boy spent a glorious two hours devouring any food that was put in front of him. I warned Phillip good-naturedly not too eat too quickly, for starved stomachs such as his were likely to kick back too much eaten in haste, but it was difficult to enforce when the child was so clearly in need of nourishment. Holmes was very quiet the rest of the night, trying to study the boy unnoticed, which never seems to work well for anyone, while I tried to converse with Phillip.

"So that's the long and short of it," I said. "You'll stay here at Baker Street until your rudimentary studies are completed and then go on to school with your peers in the autumn." I smiled. "How do you feel about that?"

The boy continued to look deeply into his umpteenth cup of tea. "I should very much like to learn how to read like Jacob," he said in a small voice. "Shall I be taught how to read?"

"Yes, of course," I answered.

"Shall I be able to read books on my own, without anyone having to read them for me?"

"Naturally."

His gaze met mine. "Then I should very much like to go to school."

I beamed. "I'm sure you'll be a first-rate student," I assured him. He rewarded me with a small smile.

Mrs. Hudson bustled in and cleared the table. "All right, young Mr. McCalliver, it's seven thirty," she said as she placed his cup of tea on a bussing tray. "It's time for bed."

Phillip didn't move for a moment, but finally turned his eyes to his uncle for the first time that evening. Holmes, who sat motionless in his armchair smoking a pipe, seemed to sense he was being watched and did not move. Phillip got up from the table slowly and made his way with trepidation to Holmes. He stood looking at the carpet and almost whispered, "Thank you for your kindness, Uncle."

Holmes finally fixed his eyes the boy and gave him a slight smile. "You will do your mother proud, I'm sure."

Phillip nodded and hesitatingly held out his hand. Just as hesitatingly, Holmes took the small boy's hand in his and shook it. Phillip bounded out of the room, followed closely by Mrs. Hudson, who seemed to have taken affectionately to the boy in such a short time. I pulled the evening edition out from under the dishes Mrs. Hudson hadn't had room on her tray to take – as Phillip had spent most of the evening eating – and shook it out into my lap.

"Eleanor must have known what she was doing," Holmes said in a voice that suggested his thoughts were far away from Baker Street. "She must have bought those copies of _The Strand _for the boy, not for herself. Undoubtedly the widow of a criminal wouldn't revel in stories of crime. Had I known…"

I waited for Holmes to finish the sentence, but he did not. "What?" I prodded gently. He threw me a tight, mysterious smile.

"Nothing, Watson," he finished quietly. He stood up and placed his pipe on the mantle, not taking his gaze from the fire. "Nothing at all."

**THE END**


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